


my prayer has always been love

by oopshidaisy



Category: Interview With the Vampire (1994), Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Blood Drinking, Fluff, Light BDSM, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, do i woobify lestat de lioncourt? perhaps, like seriously they love each other a disgusting amount, vampire biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26250505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oopshidaisy/pseuds/oopshidaisy
Summary: It sounds obscene, more so than anything he’d done as a mortal, and yet—for Lestat. It’s just—there’s a lot he’d do for Lestat.
Relationships: Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac
Comments: 10
Kudos: 133





	my prayer has always been love

**Author's Note:**

> this is unapologetic vampire sex so there is a lot - a lot! - of blood, and you should proceed with caution if you are at all squeamish about that. seriously, blood is substituted for every bodily excretion in this fic. we're swimming in the stuff up in here
> 
> my theory after writing this is that anne rice doesn't want anyone to write fanfiction based on her works because once we do, we'll realise how ridiculous her vampire lore is. look, i did my best. and please don't sue me, anne
> 
> as usual, this is based on my own personal mish-mash of what's in the film and the books, but it my head it skews a little closer towards the film continuity. do with this information what you will
> 
> title from 'drawn to the blood' by sufjan stevens

Lestat brings it up when they’re living in London, the longest period they’ve cohabited since—

Well, _since_.

And the way Lestat puts it, characteristically blunt, scarcely giving Louis a moment to adjust before he’s on top of him, straddling him on their garish red velvet couch (Lestat’s choice, of course). It sounds obscene, more so than anything he’d done as a mortal, and yet—for Lestat. It’s just—there’s a lot he’d do for Lestat.

A vampire’s body is more of a shell than anything. Inside sloshes decades’—centuries’, in their case—worth of blood, and no other substance remains. When they cry, it is blood. When they sweat, blood. And when they—

As far as Louis knows, no vampire has ever ejaculated, no that he’s conducted a great deal of research on the matter. Human orgasm is but a memory for them, comparable in sensation only to the swoon, that elusive ecstasy which accompanies blood-sharing. Pleasures of the flesh pale in comparison to pleasures of the blood.

Lestat insists that the principle must be the same.

“Have you not cried, my dear Louis?” he asks in between sucking on Louis’ lips, drawing mere droplets of blood that have no hope of satiating him.

“I have,” Louis says. “And yet this body’s nose has never run; its bladder has never emptied. Not everything can be replaced with blood.”

“Not everything is as it once was,” Lestat agrees. “But these bodies are mysterious to us in so many ways. There is much we do not know—or understand—yet.”

“And so you think you can make me come,” Louis says, opting to be crass (and modern) for the satisfaction of seeing Lestat’s gaze go dark. Lestat’s fangs sink in properly for the briefest of moments; there’s a pause in their conversation while Lestat laps up the resulting bloodflow, greedy for it.

“No,” he says at length, “I don’t.”

Louis’ brow creases. “But you said…”

“I think it’s a _possibility_ ,” Lestat explains, with uncharacteristic patience. It’s only then that Louis realises how much Lestat _wants_ this. “However, it is not my objective.”

“So tell me why.”

Lestat shudders a little, nips his way across Louis’ jaw and towards his ear.

“I used to do it for Nicki,” Lestat breathes. “When we were men together. I—”

He cuts himself off, and Louis frowns. He’s sure there were a great many things Nicolas and Lestat did when they were mortals together. This act in particular…

But it starts to click into place. Louis has been getting steadily stronger on a diet of Lestat’s blood for years—not strong enough to truly hurt him, but enough that if he slaps Lestat it stings. And Lestat wants that, sometimes. He gets his way: gets Louis to scratch down his neck and back, leaving crimson lines to lick back up; gets Louis to suck too much, too fast, to leave Lestat woozy and pliant.

Where is the line, Louis wonders, between how much Lestat wants to be punished and how much he wants Louis, specifically, to degrade him.

It’s not as though Louis clings to the anger of decades long past. He loves Lestat in a way he rarely understands, in a way that sees him for all that he is and accepts it into himself. There was a time when he had thought Lestat cruel and thoughtless, idiotic and immature. He has also known from the first that Lestat is enchanting, seductive, and profoundly lonely. None of those judgments have left him so much as they have been irrevocably altered to accommodate the Lestat he has come to know, and accept, and adore.

Lestat, on the other hand, frequently slips into believing that Louis tolerates and resents him—and has to be reminded of the truth. The violence is an extension of that, a way of breaking down Lestat’s barriers so that he might let love through.

He says, “Okay, then.”

It’s a simple matter of displacement to make his cock fill with blood. A newborn vampire might not be able to do it, but Louis is far from a newborn.

They’re not naked yet. Louis’ soft green sweater is halfway off his shoulder, baring the lasting imprint of Lestat’s bite. And he’s wearing jeans that only a minute ago weren’t half so constrictive.

Perhaps this is something they’d better do in bed, but Louis has the suspicion that Lestat will prefer to be on his knees, and Lestat certainly doesn’t seem inclined to move them. He’s still pressed close in Louis’ lap and there’s a flush to his skin.

They hover there for a mere moment. Lestat’s face isn’t fully visible, still tucked near his ear—near the rabbiting pulse in his neck.

Then, in a movement so fast it’s almost impossible to Louis’ eyes, Lestat is on the floor, kneeling. His lips are red with Louis’ blood and his eyes are as glassy with lust as Louis has ever seen them, even though they’ve barely done anything yet. Also, he’s not talking, which is always a rarity where Lestat is concerned.

“Hands behind your back,” Louis orders softly.

There’s a minute hesitation before Lestat complies; there always is. And then he’s clutching his wrists together, all showy obedience. There’s a defiant look in his eyes, but it’s offset by the softness in the parting of his lips. Vampires have no need to breathe, and yet he’s all but panting.

“Good,” Louis says, tucking a strand of Lestat’s hair behind his ear approvingly. Lestat leans into the touch.

Unhurriedly, Louis opens his trousers.

Lestat has seen his cock before, has touched it, but in all honesty Louis had stopped thinking of it as a sexual organ back in the 1700s. Far more intimate, now, for him to bare his throat.

Lestat appears to disagree, staring hungrily at the appendage, which is admittedly flushed red with its surplus of blood. Louis wonders if Lestat will bite him, down there. The thought sends an unexpected bolt of lust through him, draws out a soft gasp.

“Go on,” he murmurs, and without further prompting is enveloped in the slick excess of Lestat’s mouth, which immediately goes deeper than Louis had believed possible.

It is only now that he considers that his mortal experiences with this particular act might have been lacking.

Louis might suspect that Lestat does it for show, when he pulls back and gasps—but the sound is shockingly vulnerable, and there are no words that fully encapsulate the expression on his face, its achingly helpless desire. Louis smooths a hand over his hair. 

“Do not,” Lestat grits out, “be gentle.”

At once, Louis gathers Lestat’s curls into a fist. It won’t hurt him, as such, beyond a mild prickling sensation, but Lestat has a certain emotional core located in his hair that Louis has learned not to question.

He pushes Lestat down like that, too fast to give him a chance to cover his teeth, which immediately scrape bloody lines down the length of Louis’ cock. Lestat moans when the taste hits him and squirms in place, but he still dedicates himself more to deepthroating than to drinking his fill. It’s remarkably unselfish, and so Louis’ murmured, “beautiful. Good boy,” rings with absolute truth—even if it is still partially for the benefit of Lestat’s uniquely insecure narcissism.

He _is_ beautiful, of course. Eyes closed, dark lashes whispering against the dark hollows under his eyes. There are bright spots of pink at the apples of his cheeks, dusting them like a woman’s expensive blusher. And his mouth—well, contrary to his own protestations, Louis has always loved Lestat’s mouth.

He had thought that he would be detached, uninterested, and yet he can feel his heart thudding too fast, aching to be in tandem with his maker’s. He can feel bloodlust pooling in his own mouth, and an unusual fogginess is making his mind run slow.

“I love you,” he’s saying, variations on a theme. Even as his nails scrape hard against Lestat’s skull and the back of his neck, drawing the scent of yet more fresh blood into the charged air, “Darling. I love you.”

He’s not surprised to see the glint of crimson peek out from beneath Lestat’s lashes. He sweeps up the blood-tear with his thumb and takes the taste into his mouth, savouring the mere drop. It still sets his veins alight, still makes him moan.

“You can drink more,” Louis says. His voice is thick. “It’s okay. You deserve it.”

That’s when Lestat begins to suck in earnest, and Louis can almost pinpoint the moment he slips into the swoon. His eyes fling open, huge and dark and lined in the blood he’s still crying.

Louis isn’t prepared for his response. which seems to swell outwards from his frantically beating heart but ends up, unmistakeably, in his dick.

It’s not ejaculation, and it doesn’t resemble his fading mortal memories of orgasm. But more flows out onto Lestat’s waiting tongue, and amongst his blown-apart expression of lust is the just-as-familiar glint of triumph. Louis really should have known better than to give Lestat the chance to be right about something.

It takes almost a full minute for Lestat to sate himself, but once he does he climbs sinuously back into Louis’ lap, kisses the taste of him into his mouth.

“Wrist or neck, mon chéri?” Lestat asks softly. There’s no chance that Louis has done any lasting damage to his throat, but Louis does smile to think of Lestat experiencing a discomfort so quintessentially human, even for only a few minutes.

Without answering aloud, Louis brings Lestat’s wrist to his mouth, closing his teeth around the exact spot he’d first drunk from, back when he was still mortal.

A wave of ecstasy crashes through him at the first proper taste, and he crushes Lestat closer to him. Lestat, who’s laughing, bright and overjoyed. He gives himself over to the familiar feeling of the swoon, and to the touch of Lestat’s lips, gentle against his neck, kissing without biting.

As soon as he feels centered in his own body again, Lestat’s grinning down at him and saying, voice rough but somehow musical, “I told you so.”

**Author's Note:**

> i still can't decide if this is the most perverted thing i've ever written or whether it's really rather tame. leave your thoughts down below lmao
> 
> i'm on tumblr [here](https://morgans-starks.tumblr.com/) and twitter [here](https://twitter.com/oopshidaisy)


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